


An Hour A Minute

by especiallybannedbooks



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Come Inflation, Consensual Aphrodisiac Use, Knotting, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Trespasser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 15:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6912745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/especiallybannedbooks/pseuds/especiallybannedbooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian has an active imagination, a plan, and a willing partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Hour A Minute

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posted from the kmeme, now with fewer typos & improved formatting.
> 
> Prompt: original flavour knotting. what it says on the tin. good ol' swelling bump on the banger, multiple orgasms while knotted, multiple knottings, fuckin come inflation, generally making a filthy mess, Dorian getting the ride of his life, the whole shebang -- go wild, anon, go big or go homo. the catch: please no a/b/o

It's morning when the Bull arrives at last, steps into the kitchen, into the smell of coffee, of fresh bread from the village and fruit from the orchard. Dorian's papers are scattered across the table, his quill spattering ink where it lies on an abandoned sheet, words angrily struck through. The house is large, too large with no servants, much of it kept under dust sheeting. It lives only in moments.

It lives now, the kitchen bright with soft orange sunlight, the vines that trail across the outside of the villa dropping green leaves and vibrant flowers into view just beyond the window.

"Bull," Dorian exclaims, and turns to him, has to stop to catch his jar of ink from spilling.

Laughter.

The Bull bends to him, kisses him long and deep and slow.

Dorian's hand catches at the strap of his harness, holds him there.

All of it means: I missed you.

They never say the words here; whisper them only in the dead of night with a hundred or more miles between them. Whisper other things also: pleasure, alone in their respective beds. Promises. Hopes.

Fantasies.

A beautiful crystal bottle stands on the table, amidst the chaos that the Bull has come to think of as uniquely and entirely Dorian. What a thing to have come to: longing whenever he sees a messy desk.

The bottle.

Its contents are golden, might be whiskey. Might be.

Dorian said:

Imagine, if I were to sit on your cock all day.

Breathless aroused laughter at the image, the Bull's dick jerking in his hand. He said: Why, you got some freaky sex magic up your sleeve?

And Dorian, smiling—the Bull knew he was smiling, even without seeing him—had said: Well, if I did, what would you say?

In the villa, in the morning light, Dorian sees the line of his gaze and smiles a secretive smile.

Not whiskey, then.

"Paying attention to something other than me already?" Dorian asks, sly. "Goodness, I must be slipping."

"Hey," the Bull says, greeting more than protest, and takes Dorian's face between his hands to kiss him again.

Dorian is smiling properly when they part.

"Eat," he says. "Then I'll draw a bath. Are you tired from the road?"

Not too tired for Dorian. Never too tired for Dorian.

"Nah," he says. "I'm good. Got some rest on the way. More worried about you with all this paperwork. You've only been here a day."

"Mm," Dorian says. "Point taken:"

Their foreheads pressed together. One more kiss, as slow as if they had just woken in one another's arms.

Nothing with Dorian is ever how the Bull would've imagined his life, and now he's not sure what he'd do with anything else.

 

 

There is a broad shelf at the edge of the basin they use for bathing, and Dorian sits naked upon it, feet in the water; leans forward to watch the Bull, elbow to knee, chin to hand. A large basin, and the Bull could pull Dorian in with him if he wanted, hold him, rub lazily against him.

He could sit up and bow his head to Dorian's lap, mouth at his dick, already half hard. Get him off, or only tease him.

"Not yet," Dorian says, and smiles that smile again. Promise.

"Alright, Kadan," the Bull says, and settles back into the water, and is satisfied to see that Dorian's body still reacts as it always has to the Bull's open affection.

"I suppose I might grant you a little show," Dorian says. "But only a small one."

Fingers on his dick, not fisting it, only touching. Forefinger and thumb delicately pull back the foreskin from the head of it, flushed. Dorian draws a finger in small circles across the slit, and, with his eyes on the Bull, brings it to his own mouth. Truly: a tease.

The Bull rumbles his appreciation, settles back against the far side of the tub, hand pressed flat between his legs, only relief, no plans for release. That's clearly not the game, not now.

Dorian's weight shifted back, legs spread, a hand on his balls. A finger pushing up behind them out of the Bull's line of sight, and oh, _that's_ not playing fair.

"Too much?" Dorian asks.

"Come here," the Bull says. "Nah, not for that. Let me kiss you."

Dorian flushes as he had not when displaying himself, and slides himself down into the warm water, and allows the Bull to kiss him.

 

 

In the kitchen, more coffee. Dorian is barely half-dressed, has drawn on a pretty green and gold silk robe but left it hanging open. Unashamed to leave himself on show for the Bull, to encourage his attention in the way he positions himself, a glimpse now, a concealment.

He's still hard. Still playing this slow game in which everything becomes foreplay, circling closer to the central point.

The soft morning light is growing harsher, cutting sharp shadows across the room. The table, bisected, lies in light and shadow both. The black ink on Dorian's papers forms sinuous shapes in the sun, defined.

Dorian stands. The hollow of his throat is a deep shadow, begging to be kissed.

The bottle lies in shade, and glows gently gold all the same.

"So," the Bull says, "you going to tell me?"

"I think you know," Dorian says.

The Bull shrugs. "Not the specifics. Might be important."

"Of course it's important, Amatus," Dorian says. "Allow me to tease you."

The Bull laughs.

"Alright, alright. So you got us a fancy drink."

"I _did_ ," Dorian says. "I have all sorts of tricks, you know."

If I did, what would you say?

Yeah, the Bull breathed. Oh, yeah, shit, Dorian—

Fumbling touches alone in the dark, pretending that they were together.

"Do you now," the Bull says.

Dorian's breath sighs from him.

He bends forward, leaning over the Bull where he sits. Kisses him. Lets his robe fall in smooth folds against the Bull's body, his chest bare, his dick—fuck.

The Bull reaches for him, hand on his side, stroking, holding.

Dorian withdraws. The table between them. The bottle between them.

One of the first conversations they had. Don't talk about heavy shit where you might get caught up in the moment, and they're already a little too close to that.

"This is very strong," Dorian says. "It is—it is described, sometimes, as an aphrodisiac, but that might give a misleading impression. It does not create love, or direct attraction at a specific object. It does not make one unable to reason, entirely, per se. But it creates a certain intensity which can be—distracting, to put it mildly. Not to mention its effects on one's stamina. It's served sometimes at orgies. Or, ah, so I've _heard._ " A little embarrassment there now, for the first time.

"You've used it before," the Bull says.

"A good many years ago," Dorian says. His hand fidgets at the edge of his robe. "I was a young man, and very determined to be a scandal, as you know. Very determined to debauch myself in any way I could."

"And it was—"

"Nothing traumatic happened, no. I certainly wouldn't be offering to drink it with you were that the case. It was a rather overwhelming experience, and I didn't dislike it. I only imagine that with you, it might be—well. It might be even more."

"Hey," the Bull says, "nothing wrong with a good orgy. But I, uh—I get what you mean." He reaches out his hand to capture Dorian's, curls his fingers, strokes his thumb back and forth, soothing, longing. "How do we do it?"

"Drink a little at a time," Dorian says. "I don't know how much you'll need, but we can draw the experience out or cut it short if we drink as much as it takes and bring the bottle with us. Bull—are you sure? Your self-control—"

Not that Dorian thinks he might lose it. Never that. 

Respect, only.

The Bull takes a deep breath in, exhales it slowly. "Yeah."

"I tested a little, myself, last week," Dorian confesses, and effectively shocks the Bull straight back into proper arousal with that casually imparted fact. Dorian on his bed, alone, touching himself. Gasping with sensitivity and desperation both. "I needed to see if I remembered it correctly. Even alone, it wasn't unpleasant. It remains possible to stop. Withdraw. We can still use watchwords or signals."

"Hey," the Bull says. "I get the idea. It's alright. Easy."

"Talking too much again, am I?" Dorian asks, a little ruefully.

The Bull smiles. "Better safe than sorry, Kadan."

"Yes," Dorian says. "Yes, of course. Now? Tomorrow?"

"Now," the Bull says, the word rough-edged, emphatic.

Dorian's breath shudders. "Well then."

Glasses in one hand, the bottle in the other. Steps down the hall to the master bedroom. The Bull follows two paces behind him.

 

 

"There's one more thing," the Bull says. "Don't know if it's going to be a problem. Don't know if it's even going to actually be a thing."

They sit on the bed, facing each other. Dorian's legs are curled under him; the Bull's stretch out before him as he leans back against the headboard. Bright light even here, the curtains thrown back. The inner courtyard lies green and warm beyond the open window. The scents of flowers mingle.

They are naked in the sunlight.

"Tell me," Dorian says.

The Bull brings a hand to his own dick, shifts it a bit so Dorian can see what he's talking about. All the ridges and small bulges at the base of it that Dorian gets off on feeling when he's fucked, like the gloriously filthy man he is.

"This is another one of those Qunari things," the Bull says. "Only really for breeding, I guess. If the Tamassrans wanted to make sure it'd take, they'd give us this stuff that made these bits here swell up, like a knot. Locks you together while you come, keeps everything inside. It can happen by itself, but it's never happened to me. Just, you know, this drink of yours—I'm not saying it's going to happen. But it could."

"Hmm," Dorian says, considering. His expression is more intrigued than concerned. Of course it is. Dorian loves to get fucked, loves to take as much as he can. Revels in it. "And would it—bother you? The wrong sorts of associations?"

The Bull shrugs. "Nah. Don't think so, anyway. Different enough context. It's not gonna be the same."

"I should very much hope not," Dorian says, laughing.

They've talked about this before—the Bull having been bred with a series of Tamassrans, having children somewhere, even if the idea of _children_ isn't right, doesn't fit in his mind. It's familiar territory; there's just never been any reason to talk mechanics before.

"So if it happens," the Bull begins.

"Then I expect the full experience," Dorian finishes for him. "So long as you're comfortable providing it."

"Alright," the Bull says. "Yeah. Alright."

 

 

They drink. Glass clinked gently against glass.

It's somewhere between sweet and sharp on the tongue, fragrant, like an unfamiliar citrus fruit. It's warm in the throat. Hot in the stomach.

"Oh," the Bull says, and then, as that heat radiates out through him, " _fuck,_ that's good."

"Mm," Dorian agrees, and pulls him into a kiss, lazy and deep, like they were pleasantly drunk.

 

 

The Bull aches, his cock sliding against the fold of Dorian's hip. It's not enough for release, even like this. But he lets the pleasure of it sing through him, light up every part of him, consume him.

Throws his head back, curses.

He needs more, more, more of Dorian's skin against his, more of the breathy noises Dorian makes with every twist of the Bull's fingers inside him, more of the way Dorian's cock smears a constant stream of precome against the Bull's stomach. Dorian kneels over him, arms around his neck; cries out against his shoulder. The heat hasn't stopped building; is engulfing, spiralling.

"Oh," Dorian moans, " _oh_ —"

Spasms, unexpectedly, around the Bull's fingers.

His cock jerks against the Bull's chest, jerks violently, again, again, stripes him with come.

Dorian trembles. "Give me more," he whispers.

His nails are sharp on the back of the Bull's neck.

The Bull spreads his fingers inside Dorian, curls them.

Dorian screams.

"Alright?" the Bull murmurs, hazy.

But Dorian only nods, a definite gesture that comes without hesitation. Kisses the Bull's shoulder, his neck; shivery little kisses, like he can't focus on any single thing for long enough to leave a mark.

Oh, how the Bull wants him to leave a mark. Whispers as much, and groans as Dorian does it, teeth and tongue.

"Gonna fuck you," the Bull says. "Hold on." Oil spills over his hand, across the sheets.  
Hands on Dorian's hips to lift him. To pull him back down, inch by inch.

This time when they cry out it's together, Dorian stretching so fucking well around him, opening to him, pressing around him, and fuck, but it's never been like this, he can _feel_ —everything, the press of Dorian's hole around every ridge and fold of his dick.

Dorian, open mouthed, is almost voiceless against the Bull's neck, hands scrabbling and clenching against the Bull's back, ah—ah— _ah—_

"Shit," the Bull says, "shit, you're so incredible, you're so fucking clever, thinking this up, look how good I can make you feel now."

He grinds his hips up against Dorian's arse, feels Dorian's balls pressing heavy and swollen against the thick hair around his dick. Minute shifts are still like earth-tremors, shocking outward from the place where Dorian's hole is stretched so wide around him, making his damn hands shake—his hands, he's never, not even when he was seventeen and they sent him to the Tamassrans for the first time to get this shit taken care of. Dorian has made him clumsy with desire enough times, but this is more than that.

"It's so," Dorian slurs, "you're so—oh, I was right, it's more. It's _more_."

"How was it before," the Bull murmurs, brings a hand up to stroke through Dorian's hair, fascinated by the shift of every strand against the pads of his fingers. "How was it the first time?"

Dorian, too, is shaking. The Bull rolls his hips a little more definitely, and Dorian's entire body reacts, tense and release, his breath whining between his teeth.

"There are places," he says. "There are places in Minrathous that—specialise. Places—"

Every roll of the Bull's hips breaks the flow of his words, has him swallowing, fumbling for the thread of his thoughts.

"Places for sex," Dorian says. "Not brothels, only—ohh—meeting places."

"Hmm," the Bull says. Means to play it light, but it comes out urgent. "The—the bathhouses by the docks. Had a _good_ time there once."

"Of course you did," Dorian says, fond, despairing, desperate. "Oh, oh, just a little more, just there—"

"Tell me first," the Bull says, although he's close enough himself, _because_ he's close enough himself, barely holding on. "Tell me—what did you do?"

"We took a private room, five of us" Dorian says. "People do it entirely in public, but I couldn't—oh—I'd do it in public with you, I'd do anything with you—"

"Nah," the Bull gasps. "No. You wouldn't."

Dorian laughs. "No, I wouldn't—but I'd do that, if it was—fasta vass—if it was safe. It's not, it's not, but oh—"

"A fantasy," the Bull says. "You been thinking about me fucking you in front of everyone?"

"Yes," Dorian says.

"Maybe about you fucking me," the Bull adds, feels his body surge to even greater heights of arousal, all of him tensing to keep from coming on the spot, his incipient orgasm tight at the base of his dick. The edge of it is strange and intense, like the other thing only, only—more, yes, it's more, Dorian stretched more around him, his heart full of feeling, everything so very, very _much_. It's going to happen, he can tell it is, he's going to— "Bending me over and—uh—showing them how into it I am—"

" _Yes,_ " Dorian says, and he's coming, he really is coming again, his cock still untouched save for what friction he's been able to get against the Bull's stomach; laughing at the ridiculousness of it even as it happens, clinging to the Bull as though to life.

The Bull can't hold himself balanced on that edge any longer, groans, clutches at Dorian's hips, breathes: "You want my knot—" like a question that misses its tone, but Dorian is crying out his desire anyway, pushing his hips down hard, insistent, and the Bull is gone, coming and coming and coming, every pulse of it drawing a shocked little gasp from Dorian, who is stretched so far around him, who takes it so fucking well.

Dorian tries to lift his hips, moans at the resistance, at the pressure of the Bull's knot against his hole, the tug of it from the inside; rocks against the Bull, twists his hips experimentally, and fuck, fuck, he's fucking himself on it, fucking himself like the Bull has seen him doing with one of his bigger plugs, not even trying to withdraw it except for the pleasure of teasing himself, only shifting the angle. Only his knot is bigger than anything Dorian owns. Only now the Bull can _feel_ it.

"I can feel your pulse inside me," Dorian murmurs, amazed; squeezes down around the Bull and gives a little groan as the Bull's cock twitches again, spills, not as much as the first time but definite, heady. "I can feel it when you come—you came so much, didn't you? Can I make you come again properly before you pull out, do you think?"

The Bull closes his eye, struggles to find steadiness. Oh, no, he feels nothing he doesn't normally feel for Dorian. But Dorian was right. It's distracting, the force of it.

"Yeah," he says. "I reckon so."

"Well then," Dorian says, and finally collects himself enough to raise his face for a kiss; drags his teeth ungently against the Bull's lips. His hips haven't stopped moving for a moment. He says again: "Oh, you came so _much_."

"You're into that," the Bull says.

"Yes," Dorian says. "I did that. I made you come harder than anyone else. More."

"Yeah," the Bull says; cups Dorian's face between his hands, kisses him again; even kissing is a shuddering, shocking thing, the softness and roughness of Dorian's lips against his endlessly fascinating, a counterpoint to the way Dorian's body is still clenching around his knot. "Dorian—keep telling me your story. The first time."

"Mm," Dorian says; hits just the right angle on this shift of his hips to have him moaning more loudly. He shifts his weight backward to chase the feeling. The Bull pulls his knees up a little, gives Dorian something to reach back and support himself on, his back arching. "Five of us—we, we took in in turns to fuck each other, suck each other. It was the first time I—it was the first time I ever took three cocks at once."

He's still leaking precome profusely. It runs down the underside of his cock, over his balls, the Bull has never seen anything like it.

"You'd taken two before," the Bull says.

" _Yes,_ " Dorian says, although whether it's an answer or a cry of pleasure as he arches his back further is up for grabs. Both, maybe. "I'd been, I'd been fucked in the arse and the mouth at the same time, but not, not—"

"Not two people fucking your arse at once," the Bull growls.

"No," Dorian agrees. "And they still weren't as big as, as this—as you—"

He's angling for something now, showing off his strength in the arch of his spine, hands against the Bull's legs, head tipped back, but the Bull's brain doesn't catch up until Dorian shifts his weight onto the bull's good leg for long enough to grab the Bull's hand.

Press it to his stomach.

The Bull can _feel_ the shape of his own cock, pushed so deep into Dorian by the angle, by his knot, the tightness with which they're held together more than they could ever normally achieve.

"And I've never felt it like _this_ before, he says, "you're so deep inside me—deeper than anyone—"

The Bull presses down on his stomach, feels the pressure of it against his dick at the same time as he feels his dick pressing against his hand, pressing against his hand from inside Dorian, from inside him, this is really—they're really—

He curses with feeling; spreads his fingers, traces the outline of it, can see it with that little extra pressure. Actually see it.

"Bull," Dorian says. " _Bull!_ Oh, fuck, I'm going to—again—"

And yes, he's coming again, and that's all it takes for the Bull, the sight, the feeling of his own dick against his hand as though only Dorian's skin lay between, so close.

It goes on for even longer than the first time, shakes him, leaves him boneless where he half-lies, half-sits against the bed. Dorian has curled forward again as he came, has pressed a hand to the Bull's chest, flingers sliding through three loads of his own come.

His face is a picture of disbelief.

"Do you," he says, and his voice is hoarse. "Do you want to leave it there?"

They're still tied together, bodies still pulsing with small shocks, but the heat he has been submerged in from the moment they drank is lessening, only a little.

The Bull doesn't want it to go. Doesn't want to return, yet, to a world where his time with Dorian is finite.

He shakes his head.

 

 

Drink. From the bottle now: a larger swallow than before for Dorian, and the Bull takes a moment, allows himself that, to watch the way Dorian's body sinks into the feeling of it. To feel the way Dorian shifts around his dick. Twice, he's come twice inside Dorian, come more than he's ever done in any situation that was about pleasure. His knot holds all of it inside still, hasn't subsided enough for it to start leaking out, although it allows, for this brief moment, a little more room for them to maneuver; holds Dorian a little less tightly in place. But it won't come down fully at all, probably, not like this. Not for hours.

"Bull," Dorian says, his voice gone soft with that hot, consuming feeling, somewhere between want and need.

The Bull drinks deeply. Sinks.

 

 

Slow undignified rearrangement has them on their sides, the Bull holding Dorian to his chest. The bed is broad, and they lie stretched sideways across it, pillows for the Bull's head, his horns just clear of the edge.

Dorian rocks steadily back against him, hisses sharply as the Bull pinches at his nipples, tugs at them; says, "oh, harder," and cries out loud as the Bull twists roughly.

When the Bull drags his hand down Dorian's chest to his stomach, he thinks maybe he's a little bit swollen. That he's so full of the Bull's come that—

Stupid thought. But it lances through him all the same, has him gritting his teeth against orgasm.

"Don't be so stubborn," Dorian says. "Let me feel it. I feel so full. It's not enough."

The Bull comes, and comes. He comes so much each time, doesn't understand how it's possible. Magic, of course, but that's not—

No space for that level of thought, not for more than moments.

Dorian's stomach really is slightly rounded under his hands. Not terribly, not stretching uncomfortably. But definitely. A little more than a good meal could account for.

They haven't parted since mid-morning, every rearrangement a slow process, laborious, only for the moments when the heat is almost fading, before they drink. Fully engulfed, they only rock together, kiss or grasp or tangle their legs, sink into their awareness of each other's bodies.

The sky is growing darker, by degrees. They lie in shadow, and the breeze from the window is getting cooler, but not unpleasant; soothing, against the Bull's newly sensitive skin. How much he feels everything, every shift of fabric, every smell, every sound. With every breath he breathes in Dorian, face against his hair, sex heavy in the air.

A sort of unreality. Although the day turns towards night and today will become tomorrow, there is no moment outside of this.

"I love you," he says. He so rarely says the words as such, spells them other ways. Names breathed reverently in private. Dorian. Kadan.

Dorian's hand clutches at his. The sound he makes could be a sob, but it's pleasure, it's pleasure; he's coming again, as though the words meant as much as the acts.

The Bull presses their twined hands to Dorian's stomach, lets him feel how he's swelled, and Dorian gasps, his dick spurting a final bit of come onto the ruined sheets.

"I want to kneel," he murmurs, shuddering with aftershocks and not softening in the slightest, unreal, incredible, on and on. "Bend over and have you fuck me like that. Drag your knot as far out as you can. Your hands on my belly. And—"

"Fuck you properly," the Bull says.

"Yes."

 

 

They are clumsy as they try to move together, laugh their way through it. Giddy, but themselves, always themselves. Kneeling, Dorian turns his head to kiss the Bull, sloppy at this awkward angle, and that's laughter too. It is inherently ludicrous. The entirety of it, every moment.

How's he meant to let it go?

This time, Dorian drinks from the Bull's mouth; loses a little, uncoordinated.

The Bull's fingers wipe it up. Press, still covered in it, mingled a little with Dorian's come, to Dorian's lips.

It's the Bull who shudders at that, at the show Dorian makes of licking his hand clean.

The bottle is nearly empty.

Dorian, bends himself forward, elbows on the bed; hisses as the act in itself pulls the Bull's knot tight against his hole. Like this, the Bull can see how Dorian stretches in these moments, the base of the Bull's knot dragging, sliding back in, dragging again.

Dorian's breath heaves.

"Touch me," Dorian says. "Feel it—what you're doing to me. How you're stretching me open."

The Bull obeys, helpless; feels the slick rim of Dorian's hole, feels his knot straining against it. Slides a finger around the edge, feels Dorian clenching with pleasure, forcing himself to relax.

Oil. That, too, is almost gone.

His finger, sliding around the place where they're joined again. Teasing, just a little, inward. The slightest penetration. A little deeper, when the resistance is less than he expects.

Dorian spasms; falls forward onto his folded arms. "Oh, what have you done to me, that's—oh—"

The Bull closes his free hand around the base of Dorian's cock, feels how it pulses hard against his fingers, Dorian's body struggling to come.

"Oh," Dorian moans. "Please, Bull—"

The Bull bends over him, holds his cock until Dorian has backed down from that crest of pleasure. A hand against his stomach, even more definitely rounded from this angle, gravity working to push the full swell of it down against the Bull's hand. Fuck, but that's hot; everything about Dorian is hot, unbelievable, that he gets to have this. To have Dorian, quick and clever and charming, dangerous, gorgeous.

That Dorian takes all of this from him, and gives it back, transmuted into gold.

"Fuck me," Dorian says, and the Bull can only obey. Quick sharp thrusts, right through his next orgasm, gasping and gasping, rougher, pulling out a little further, slamming in harder. "More, more—I want to come—don't let me—please—"

The Bull holds him. Fucks him, and fucks him, comes inside him, comes inside him again, feels all of it against his palm. Holds Dorian's cock with a harsh grip whenever his movements grow too frantic until Dorian is sobbing, sobbing, a shaking mess, stuffed full, desperate.

Lets him finally come with both hands pressing up hard against his stomach, his cock entirely untouched.

It's too much.

It will never be enough.

It's Dorian's body that seems beyond control, and the Bull who feels he might be coming apart.

 

 

True night, the sky black, star-scattered. Tiredness has settled into the Bull's body, a thousand aches, the solid well-used feeling of extended exertion.

Dorian dozes against him, their bodies still pressed close together; they came for the last time some undefinable span of minutes ago, he couldn't count them. But it hasn't been long. They're still tied, although the Bull can feel that pressure at the base of his cock slowly receding, the slightest trickle of his come sliding from Dorian, fucking obscene. He strokes his hand against Dorian's stomach, feels disbelief all over again at the state of them.

He couldn't possibly go another round, feels filthy and oversensitive, scraped raw not in his body but rather somewhere in his soul; and still it seems like it's too soon. Or is that why he feels like it's too soon? Time will begin to move again. That, also, is too soon.

He holds Dorian closer, and shakes his head when Dorian stirs, mumbles a question which is barely comprehensible as far as words go, but which means concern.

"You doze a bit more," the Bull says. "I just need you here with me. Nothing else. Don't worry, I'll get you up when we're done. Get you clean."

"Not too clean," Dorian mumbles, and settles back against the Bull, and sighs.

Drifts, again.


End file.
